We
projected, to pass the time, a "Soulful Song-Cycle," which was
frankly to be an attempt at pulling the public's leg. Our Song-
Cycle never matured, though I did write the first one of the
series, an imaginative effort entitled "In Listless Frenzy." It
was, and was intended to be, utter nonsense, devoid alike of
grammar and meaning. I quoted my "Listless Frenzy" one night to an
"intense" and gushing lady, as an example of the pitiable rubbish
decadent minor poets were then turning out. It began--
"Crimson wreaths of passionless flowers
Down in the golden glen;
Silvery sheen of autumnal showers;
When, my beloved one, when?"
She assured me that the fault lay in myself, not in the lines;
that I was of too material a temperament to appreciate the subtle
beauty of so-and-so's work. I forget to whom I had attributed the
verses, but I felt quite depressed at reflecting that I was too
material to understand the lines I had myself written.
My brother was a great admirer of the Ingoldsby Legends, and could
himself handle Richard Barham's fascinating metre very
effectively.
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